Blades
by Keiishi-san
Summary: Soi's thoughts after watching Nakago with Yui.


Author's Notes: I don't know why I so frequently end up writing Soi pieces, considering she's not among my favourite characters. For some reason I still find it easy to write from her perspective. I view her as vulnerable and devoted, somehow strong enough not to crumble under the pressure of memories of the past and Nakago's coldness and seeming indifference towards her. At times I dislike her, at times I sympathise with her pain. Soi is a character I cannot make up my mind about. 

This short POV is set after Soi sees Nakago kiss Yui in the temple of Byakko, at around episode 42. 

Oh...remember to feed the author. *grin*   


**Blades**   


The sword moves effortlessly as I go through the motions, cutting the air without a sound. It is a slender thing, this sword, sharp and light and fitting for a woman. I could not wield the heavier blades as well as this and I have learned not to even bother with them. In battle you die if you do not control your weapon and I could not move a broadsword fast enough to block my enemy's blows. This one suits me well indeed. 

I close my eyes and raise the sword, then move fast to cut the throat of an imaginary, smaller enemy in front of me. I raise the sword again, but now my eyes are open, and I see past the weapon, past my mind's conjured images of the Miko lifeless on the floor and her blood staining steel. 

It would change nothing. It would lose me everything. 

The sword falls to the floor; the body of the girl vanishes. He could disarm me with a look even before…now the mere thought of it is enough. 

I decide I have cried too freely already and refuse to continue. However, my heart has always triumphed over my head and it does so again; a tear falls down my cheek. He conquers me so easily. 

My eyes close again, as they have so many times before, and as before the image is still clear. Nakago-sama kissing the girl, the little fool of a Miko who does not appreciate the good fortune gods have gifted her with. What would I not do to have Nakago pay so much attention to me? What have I not done already to doom myself to ruin, without even his approval to console me as I walk the steps to Hell after my death? 

I take deep breaths to steady myself and wipe off the tears. I stand straight and rigid, my head held proudly as I face a shadowy foe. This works and I am grateful; it has not always. Battle calms my doubts. It is my chance to prove my worth, to guard my lord and destroy those who would hurt him. In battle I cannot let myself be distracted by foolish things; I must prove my worth before his eyes. 

I stand a moment longer and then kneel, taking hold of the sword again. I am no more than an adequate warrior, yet there is comfort in the routine of training and practise. When I practise I know I am learning something that might allow me to please him one day. My lightning may be my most dangerous weapon, my beauty next after that, but I would not let him find my lacking in the craft he has mastered so well. 

Nakago knows the use of blades. When I was younger I used to like nothing better than sneaking away from my duties to watch him train. Every graceful move, every deadly strike, all ending with the inevitable defeat of his unfortunate opponent. He was in total control, and I shivered with fascination, wondering whether he had mastered the secrets of a woman's body as well as those of the sword.. 

I cannot deny he has wielded me well, as much a tool to use against his enemies as that cruel weapon he carries. At times it seems I do everything he wishes, follow his every command, just as the sword does. 

How could I say no to him, whatever he asked of me? Even with the memory of the kiss he gave to the Miko fresh in my mind I know I never will. 

A look from him can cut deeper into my heart than any sword ever could. I dread failure, for it subjects me to painful wounds inflicted by his disappointment. 

Yet one lingering touch makes up for a month's worth of silently bleeding, one gentle kiss for a year of punishing battle, the sound of my name on his lips in a darkened room for the Hell I have damned myself to. 

Let him wound me then, if he only keeps healing me with such sweet skill. I welcome the misery as long as he holds the sword.   



End file.
